Scent
by Arlome
Summary: Scents, she finds, are a trigger.


Scents, she finds, are a trigger.

It catches her off-guard, all of a sudden, like a well-aimed punch in the gut, somewhere on the way to Devaron on a supply run and a last-minute, half-arsed recruit mission that is probably doomed to fail. Deep in the bowels of the _Falcon_ , one of three seemingly motley passengers, she's struck by a distant smell the origin of which she can't discern, and an onslaught of mournful nostalgia threatens to crush her under its ghostly weight.

She leans against the bulkhead in the twisting corridor, her eyes closed and knees shaking, and _breathes_.

The scent twists into her brain and tugs at the tiny memory levers inside her skull; images of a laden breakfast table and sunny, almost blinding, days sift through her fluttering lashes. She exhales shakily, her lips tremble, and the surprise at the intensity of the emotion the memory invokes grips her by the throat.

Muffled, purposeful footsteps echo down the passage, heading towards her on their way from the cockpit. She doesn't even have a moment to think about collecting herself when the instigator of said footsteps strides into her longing soaked episode of sudden recollection, in mid-sentence.

"-appears you were right, Princess; High Commend just sent us the- Leia?"

Her eyes are still closed, but she can nonetheless sense the way she's being regarded at the moment by the captain of the ship. The air around him shifts ever so slightly as he takes a hesitant step in her direction, while two unbidden, hot streaks of liquid make it past the barricade of her lashes, all the way down the slope of her puffy cheeks.

"Leia?" he inquires again gently, and she finally opens her eyes.

The look on Han's face is both worried and cautious, and she can tell that he's unsure of how to react to this uncharacteristic display of vulnerability on her part. His hazel eyes, startlingly green under the artificial light of the ship, take in her tear-stained face and soften. He takes a step closer to her and stops when he's directly in front of her; his hands are idle at his sides, and she isn't sure whether she's disappointed or grateful at not being offered the assurance of their comfort.

"Leia," he asks for the third time, "what's wrong?"

 _Leia_. Not _Sweetheart_ , or _Your Worship_ ; not even the mostly neutral _Princess_. Just _Leia_ – plain and simple; and a thought, unbidden and frighteningly raw, blossoms in the chasm of her mind -

 _I might love this man,_ she thinks desperately and shudders at the terrifying prospect.

"There was this…smell," she mumbles, and their eyes meet, "when I was walking…this smell that," she shakes her head and lower her eyes to the floor. Her gaze falls to Han's feet, and she notices that he's wearing blue woolen socks, instead of his boots, and that he's already changed into his sleeping pants. Han takes another step closer, his sock-clad toes just barely touching her boots, and this time, his hand does come to rest on her shoulder.

"What about the smell, Leia?" his voice is calm, but she can tell that he's puzzled and more than anxious to get to the bottom of this slightly bizarre situation, "was it something burning?"

She shakes her head and her cheek brushes against his knuckles in the process.

"No, nothing of that sort," she sighs, "It just…I smelt something that suddenly reminded me of…"

After a moment of silence, she hears him suck in a breath in realization. She's positive, without chancing a look at his face, that he nods in understanding and purses his lips in something akin to sympathy.

"What was it?" he asks and squeezes her shoulder, his voice surprisingly wistful, "the smell of the paint on your favorite landspeader? The scent of the grease in its engine?"

Leia peeks at him from under her lashes, marveling at the change in his eyes as he regards her at such close proximity. They are almost black now, so dark in their intensity, as they settle on her face, granting her their undivided attention. She shakes her head and leans back against the bulkhead, slumping a little under the weight of her memories.

"Powdered buns," she sighs quietly and turns her cheek to the cool body of the ship, "it was the scent of Cook's powdered buns. I was on my way to the cockpit, and there was something in the air… it suddenly reminded me of breakfast on the balcony back at home and…" She brakes off abruptly and closes her eyes again, "they were my favorite…Cook made them just for me."

She feels Han's hand drop from her shoulder and a sudden sense of loss that has nothing to do with Alderaan grips her belly. She looks up at him, and he inclines his head towards the direction of the main hold.

"Come, Princess," he says almost ruefully, "I've got some Chandrilian port wine you might like- I think we could both use a drink right now."

He starts off towards his destination without waiting to see whether she'll follow, and the echo of his sock-clad footsteps is remarkably loud in the heavy silence. A moment or two after Han's gone, Leia detaches herself from the bulkhead and begins to slowly move in the same direction, her heart full to the brim and dense in her chest.

When she arrives at the main hold, a tumbler full of port wine is waiting for her on the Hologame table. Han is sitting in front of the console with his own drink in hand, his ankles crossed; he turns to her when he hears her approaching and raises his eyebrows towards the other glass, inviting her to drown her ghosts in liquor.

They drink in silence; she at the table, he at the console – but the quiet is soothing, and the budding camaraderie assuasive. Leia breathes a sigh of fragile relief.

* * *

Three weeks after their return from Devaron, Han seeks her out. She's standing in one of the frozen corridors of the frozen base on the ice cube that likes to pretend that it's a planet, and speaking with Dodonna about including Rogue Squadron in an upcoming Intel mission when the slightly hunched figure of Captain Solo appears in her peripheral vision. He's heading their way, but his eyes are trained on the icy floor before him, and a frown is marring his otherwise handsome face. There is something in his arms, a box of some sort, but Leia can't make it out from this angel, and she doesn't want to attract attention by turning to the man and openly acknowledging his presence. Han's nearly upon them when he finally raises his eyes from the ground, and he stumbles back a little in surprise at the thankfully avoided collision, but then he notices it's her before him and smiles openly.

"Solo!" Jan acknowledges Han almost cordially and moves to shake his hand, "I thought you were on a supply run to Ithor."

Han moves the box to his hip and cradles it under his arm so he can shake Dodonna's hand.

"General," he says in greeting, "I just landed. The run was very successful. We even managed to secure an extra crate of bacta gel for you; I got it on the _Falcon_."

Jan's expression is pleasantly surprised, but before he manages to acknowledge the captain's achievement in any verbal way, Han pulls Leia gently by the arm and half turns to leave.

"Do you mind if I borrow the Princess for a few minutes, General?" he asks, not really waiting for an answer, "there are some things I'd like to ask about our upcoming mission to Ord Mantell."

They leave the slightly dazed general behind, Leia shrugging apologetically at him as Han all but drags her away, and make their way towards the sleeping quarters. Leia only realizes they reached her room when Han lands himself on her bed and, unceremoniously dragging her to sit down beside him, hands her the box silently.

She takes a moment to study it in the harsh white light of her room. It is, Leia realizes with an amused quirk of her eyebrow, quite _fancy_ looking. Not large, but not lacking in volume either; not heavy, but _defiantly_ full. The box, pink and tied masterfully with a red ribbon, sits gingerly in Leia's lap and she turns to Han, who looks almost _anxious_.

"I figured the whole 'questions regarding the mission' was an excuse," she smirk and turns her attention back to the box, "What is it?" she asks curiously, and Han shrugs.

"Open it," he says, even though her fingers are already at work, "It's for you."

The first thing she notices is the smell.

Sweetly pungent, syrupy and with a hint of nuts, it engulfs Leia in a loving embrace, just like a mother who is welcoming a hungry child home. Her eyes blur with unshed tears, and she gasps sharply, audibly; unable to turn away from the lumpy shapes in the box and look at the generous man sitting to her right.

"There was this quaint Alderaani restaurant near the docks at Ithor, and I wandered in," he says after a moment, his voice mild, "I asked them if, by any chance, they had this particular treat on the menu, and, as it turns out, they did." Suddenly he chuckles and bumps shoulder with her, "They call these _'Leia Buns'_ ; the cook even told me that I have wonderful taste because even _'Her Royal Highness herself could never resist these buns_.' This is a direct quote, by the way."

She laughs wetly, wipes at the tears with the back of her hand, and turns to him. He looks right back at her, a ghost of a smile on his lips, and she finds herself thinking- _if only things were different_ –

"Oh, Han," she breathes.

- _if only he promised to stay_ , _then_ -

"Thank you."

- _I might love this man_ -

Han shrugs again and gives her his devilishly attractive, highly suggestive lopsided smile and winks.

"You're welcome, Your Gluttoness."

Leia's eyes widen in astonishment and, suddenly, she's laughing. Relief and gratitude, tinted slightly with a hint of sorrow, wash over her and she lets the current carry her with the flow.

She reaches into the box and takes out a bun, biting into it and moaning with such innocent enjoyment that she completely misses the look that crosses over Han's face.

"Mhm," she groans at the divine taste, her nose white with powdered sugar, "This is _so good_ ; take one, Han; you simply _must_ try one!"

The captain, unable to look away, simply shakes his head vigorously.

"No, no," he says and clears his throat, "the buns are all yours, Sweetheart; I got them for you."

But Leia doesn't take 'no' for an answer; she pinches a small morsel off her own bun and extends it to Han.

"Oh, I insist," she pleads, "You really must."

Han looks down at her fingers, which are coated in white powder and sugary goodness, and drags his eyes back to her face.

"Fine," he says huskily and, taking hold of her wrist, brings her fingers up to his lips. Leia's breath hitches in her throat as his mouth closes around her digits and his tongue moves to pry out the little piece of bun. The look he gives her is sultry, downright sinful, and her cheeks burn and heart races because she can feel his mouth around her fingers all the way down to places that have no business being _this_ affected by Han Solo.

But then he leans back, lets go of her wrist, and her fingers slip from his wicked mouth. Han's eyes widen as he sucks on his lower lip, his tongue darting out to lick a spot of powder, and he moans appreciatively.

"You're right, Princess," he says casually, as if he wasn't- just now -embarrassingly close to making her climax just from sucking on her fingers, "these buns are _incredibly_ good! Hell, I might bring back a whole crate next time I'm on Ithor! Here, I'll just take another small bite," he says and grabs her other wrist, biting off a surprisingly small chunk of the still-mostly-whole bun she's holding. Now his nose is also covered in powder as he munches away happily and Leia laughs, relieved at the sudden break of the heavy sexual tension. Han joins in and soon they are laughing so hard that actual tears roll down their cheeks. They are, in fact, making so much noise, that Luke barges in five minutes later and finds them hunched over each other, clutching at their aching bellies, faces white with sugar, and _howling_ loud enough for the Empire to hear.

"What is going on…?" Luke asks, clearly questioning his friends' sanity, "are you two high on spice…?"

Han falls back onto the bed, his shoulders shaking and Leia hits him lightly on the thigh.

"S-stop it, Han!" she chortles and then turns to Luke, her eyes softening immediately as she sobers up, "Hey, Luke; do you want to taste a bit of Alderaan?"

"A bit of..?" Luke's eyes widen as his eyes settle on the pink box in Leia's lap that somehow managed to come to no harm during the _Giggle Attack_.

"You gotta taste these buns, Kid," Han practically moans from the bed, his arm draped over his eyes, "they are simply to _die_ for!" This earns him another swat at the thigh, and he grins widely and mutters 'ouch' without any conviction. Luke comes over and peers into the box with interest. Leia hands him a fresh bun and smiles widely, her heart suddenly light, when Luke takes a bite and then another enthusiastically, announcing with a full mouth that the pastry is indeed outstanding.

Luke sits down beside her on the bed and nods appreciatively at the bun in his hand; Han is still flat on his back, and Leia, not being able to see his eyes, suspects that the captain may have fallen asleep. She leans down and rests on her elbow, her face nearly pressed into his leather jacket. She breathes in the smell of engine grease and a hint of blaster fire; the faint scent of aftershave that clings to his skin, even though it's probably been hours since he shaved.

Scents, she finds, are a trigger; but Han smells like _Han_ and Luke smells like everything good in the Galaxy, and even though Alderaan's returned to dust with everything she ever loved and held dear, she can still take a piece of it inside of her. Alderaan, she realizes, continues to live in its people.

Emboldened, Leia pulls herself a bit higher until she's level with Han's face, and brushes her lips against his cheek. His even breathing catches a bit at the unexpected contact, but he doesn't turn towards her.

"Thank you, Han," she whispers almost against his jaw and then feels the shift of muscles in his face as he smiles.

"Anytime, Leia," he answers, his voice just as quiet, "Anytime."


End file.
